Invictus
by vetty123
Summary: , or The Abso-bleeding-lutely Unconventional Poem-Fic. Zulf was left to die. The Kid, torn by his decision, chooses the Restoration path and winds the clock back in order to change things. Unfortunately, the gods have other plans. And at the end of it all, the answer to the final question: Who is Rucks, and how does he know The Kid? Two-shot. No pairings.
1. The Origins

**Invictus**

Or

**The Abso-bleeding-lutely Unconventional Poem-Fic**

* * *

**A/N**: Dedicated to TheMancer, whose stories I have totally fallen in love with.

Another obscure fandom has been invaded by yours truly! Be warned, this is not my usual style of story. It's a lot gloomier than I'm used to writing, so be generous in your internal reviewing.

If you're reading this, you're either a die-hard Bastion fan (like myself), or I know you personally and have bullied you into checking this out. Whichever one it may be – enjoy!

* * *

_**There's one book in particular I like to read from time to time. It covers the important things, in a manner of speakin'.**_

_**The last page [of the book] was about the author. Didn't say much. But the imagination has a way of fillin' in the gaps.**_

_**\- Rucks, The Stranger's Dream**_

* * *

_**What the $%#! did the last page say? Tell me where Rucks came from, you %#$ rats!**_

_**\- Vetty123 (aka The Scribe and Chronicler of this story), Invictus**_

* * *

_See that chunk of land over by the mountains? Set 'er down there, Kid. We'll spend the night once we've set up camp. Zulf, give 'im a hand with his work while Zia gets the tents out. I'll get to work on some firewood once we've touched down. _

_Ahh…there's nothing quite like sitting down for a good hot meal after a long day's work, is there? The Kid'll be done reefing the sails in a minute, then we can get around to setting up dinner. If you get could some water boiling Zulf, Zia can start making some of that grand stew of hers._

_That's quite a fire you got there, Zulf – keepin' us all cozy, like. Been a while since we could all sit around the campfire and talk, ain't it? Takes a lot of work to keep a Bastion afloat, you know. What d'you think, Kid?_

_Hmm? A story? Well, I think I've told you all the ones I'd got stocked up. I could tell them again, but I suppose you've gotten bored of them, eh? The only other stories I've got are from my own childhood, and they're so old they've got Pecker birds nestin' in 'em. But, if you insist, I suppose I could pull one out._

_But I'm warning you now: this one…this one's from the old days._

_It's from before the Bastion._

_From before the Calamity._

_Before…everything._

* * *

In hindsight, the whole tangled fiasco had started with a promise.

It wasn't a large promise, either: no lord had made this vow upon his kingdom; no person had sworn it by the weight of their own life. No epic quest hung in the balance, no empires were held in thrall. There were no scribes to document this oath; no sycophants hanging onto every portentous syllable. Made in the quiet places of the heart, it remained secret to all but the one who made it.

It was just the promise of a child who was mourning the loss of a friend who had deserved better from the gods. It was made in the desolate wasteland left after the end, upon the knife-edge between two chasms. The child was faced with two choices: to turn the clock back and save the world, or to burn all bridges and live life anew. In a shattered land, a young man had rocked the ruined remnants of his world with his actions, destroying the survivors in an attempt to save those who had been lost.

Standing before end of his labor at long-last, he didn't stand at the head of a sprawling empire or a prosperous region. His words were not noticed by any other than the wide heavens themselves. The only witnesses to his solemn pledge were two small figures who'd stood by him through the thundering storm: a young orphan girl on his right, and a decrepit old man on his left. Standing with his unconventional companions, this boy wielded the power to determine the course of the world; the burden placed squarely upon his toughened shoulders. As he stood there, in that timeless place, he began remembering.

The youth thought of the battering ram slung on his back and an unfortunately misguided comrade abandoned to his fate. Thinking of decisions that had been made; of desperate fathers who'd tried to protect their estranged daughters, of young husbands who'd lost their newly-wed wives, of glorious nations that had lost their vaunted homelands. Remembering a shattered Monument, words around the campfire, an enemy invasion, and the soul-rending look in the eyes of a man who'd just lost everything and was forced to keep on breathing.

He thought of the torturous choice he'd been offered, up on the heights of the world, between tenuous life and certain death. He thought of a limp corpse, betrayed by everyone he knew, freezing in the icy snow. He thought of smiles and frowns, of journals and stories, of friends and enemies, of life and death. Standing there, before the end of all things, he thought of these things and many more.

Finally, he chose to unravel the woven fabric of time and return matters to the way they once were.

_This time_, he promised himself with a conviction forged of loss and tempered by remembrance. Pulling the lever, he fortified his resolve.

_This time, I swear I won't let him die_.

The pledge he took as he turned the clock back was never even spoken aloud, but such binding cords on the heart don't need to be uttered aloud. The gods, as they watched, took note of his words and remembered them, even as the world turned to a better time.

Acobi, the Lady of Bounden Chains, was laboring under her iron web when she felt yet another chain add itself to her already crushing burden. The Lady smiled quietly as she considered what this meant. The cloth of time was being unwoven before her, and as oaths were unmade and broken, grains of sand crept back into the shattered hourglass. Yet even as the Goddess of Oath and Abandon watched oaths bind and break before her, she saw one that was forged of shining silver; a blazing escutcheon against the filthy black chains around her.

This chain would not be broken by time or trials, for it had surpassed the pitiful mortal plane and traversed the chasm between the ages. The Kid had made a vow, and the Chastened Maid would hold him to it.

She knew that this chain would change the world.

* * *

_You say it sounds familiar, eh Kid? Well, I don't know – seems to me like there ain't the slightest similarity._

_Besides, the story's just starting…_

* * *

_**Out of the night that covers me,  
**__**Black as the pit from pole to pole.**_

* * *

The Kid woke to find himself lying face down in a quiet alley. It was soothingly dark, and his eyes were grateful for the quietude of the gloom. As his eyes adjusted to the calm setting, he heard a refreshingly familiar sound from the street. After a few moments of confusion during which he tried to place the sound, he got it. The muted hubbub of a crowded avenue was rippling right by him – a pleasant change from the eerily oppressive silence that had followed the Calamity, swallowing up all sound. After far too long, The Kid could lie back and listen to the sound of the city's heartbeat, throbbing away in his ears.

Evidently the Restoration had worked like Rucks had told him it would. They'd all been thrown back in time, and he could try to fix everything. In fact, he could try to stop the Calamity from happening in the first place – and he planned to do just that.

From his lofty seat above, Lemaign finished his interference and sat back, content with his work. Meddling with the threads of time was normally taboo, but the Mason King had the right to interfere with them as he saw fit. Who would question the King, after all? Now, to see whether the chosen favorite of the gods could surpass the tumultuous wracks that had been appointed to him…

Down below, The Kid got up and stretched his limbs while he surreptitiously took stock of his surroundings. It was a shady sidepath, one of many that he'd treaded back when he was naught but an orphan with no place to call his own. There'd be none of that now, of course. This time, things were going to be different.

With that reassuring thought in mind, he oriented himself and started looking for Nacie's house: a favorite haunt of his before he'd been forced to sign up for the Walls to support his Mother. Once he'd met Nacie and established a base of operations, he could try to find Rucks in this time, and together they could stop the Calamity.

It hadn't been more than a few months since he last saw his hometown – he'd only been on patrol for a few weeks before the Calamity had happened, and he could still make his way through the once-destroyed streets with a degree of familiarity. He'd trod these roads many times before on his way to and from his school, and slipped comfortably back into the teeming streets of people.

Strolling nonchalantly through the city, he looked around at the landmarks absent-mindedly. As he did so, he noticed that the entire place seemed slightly more…primitive. He also noted, with some trepidation, that the welcoming light of the Bastion was absent from its usual position at the top of the city. That vaunted safe-haven was nowhere to be found, and its disappearance was certainly unsettling. Walking through the park, he found that Nordy the Bird Boy (normally inseparable from his feathered friends) was nowhere to be found.

Growing increasingly nervous, he looked for favorite shops and familiar nooks and crannies as he ran about, searching for anything familiar. The bakery, the coffee shop, the blacksmith's – all gone. Soon, The Kid was running frantically through the city that was the same yet not the same, groping furiously for an anchor point.

Coming to a gasping halt in the place where his memory told him Nacie's house was supposed to be, he raised his hand to knock only to realize that the door knocker was different from the oh-so-familiar one in his mind's eye. Taking several tentative steps back, he looked up and realized with a shock that the house's façade was entirely different, and seemed to be…a hairdressing parlor, of all things.

The rest of the day passed by in a blur as he ran from one place to the other, even invading the school for a few minutes to see if he could find a familiar face. Nobody. Even Maude the Tutor wasn't in her usual spot under the flower trees, teaching the delinquent children of the district like she always had. Nothing was the same anymore.

To make matters worse, the entire geography of the city had changed. The Bastion no longer existed, and nobody had the slightest idea what he meant when he asked them where it had gone. The Rippling Walls were missing too, meaning that the city was open to attack from any side. Caelondia wasn't safe anymore.

They were all gone. The Jawson Family. Percy the Snitch. The Tunder Brothers. Even ol' Rondy the Bartender, that fortress of longevity and good health, was nowhere to be found. Everything had changed.

As he surveyed the new world that confronted him, The Kid fancied he could hear the deep bass rumbles echoing through the heavens as an omnipotent figure laughed at him from an iron throne on high. Lord Lemaign, the King of Masons and the Holder of the Fates, leaned forward as he watched the boy's soul struggle against the overpowering blackness that was consuming his heart. The God of Hope and Despair watched the two elements war with each other with interest.

Slumping against a wall in the Wharf district, The Kid could feel the waves of anguish washing over his spirit. He knew that giving in to the despair was pointless and would get him nowhere (a lesson that he'd learnt well through the course of his difficult life), but his soul asked his mind to allow him to be weak, just this once. Crippled by the loss of everything that was familiar, he huddled into a small ball in the shadows.

The shadows encircled his mind.

As he lay there, overcome with misery and hopelessness, he heard a reassuringly rough voice conversing with someone out on the street.

"An' ah'm tellin' you, b'ain't no way me boys 'n I are headed out tae t'Wild wit'oot a real fighter ta cover us. Mah crew's made of trackers and the like; t'ain't right for us ta leave town wi' no bodyguard's. T'whole Wild near t'Tazal Terminals're still a death trap, whatever them fancy Rangers may say, an' ah ain't steppin' yon wi'out a guard who c'n cover us all. E'en a Shard's nary a bit good if'n there's no good soldiers to d'fend it, y'know!"

The Kid's ears perked up a bit, pulling momentarily from the morass of gloom that was eating away at his spirit.

_The Wild? The Tazal Terminals?_

The disembodied voice on the street continued: "Aye, ah tell you – if'n a man who could really use a pike or summat, who could smash some skulls in, like, walked by right now: why, I'd hire that feller faster than 'e could blink!"

_Zulf came from the Tazal Terminals._

_He could still be there._

With this single thought in mind, The Kid staggered to his feet and slowly made his way through the crowded street until he found himself in front of The Explorer. Reaching up, he tapped the burly man's shoulder.

Looking round, The Explorer exclaimed in surprise. "'Ullo, 'ullo! Wha'ssis here?"

Unslinging his Bullhead Shield and leaning casually upon it, The Kid rested his hand upon the hilt of his hammer meaningfully. Time to start another trek.

Lemaign laughed once more as he saw the light of hope blossom within The Kid's chest. There'd be no more fatalism about this Kid now, no; not after this experience. Now he'd take whatever came to him bravely, striving dedicatedly forward for a new dawn and a better day.

After all, the Mason King knew that success and failure were all in the mind.

* * *

_The Old City had groups of travelers moving out as they went deeper into the Wild, seeking every treasure the Continent had to offer. They took the Shards with them, which is why we found 'em all over the place. They were always looking for experienced fellows, to help escort them farther in._

* * *

_**I thank whatever gods may be  
**__**For my unconquerable soul.**_

* * *

The small party made their way slowly through the dense undergrowth, the lead scouts hacking crude paths through the tangled foliage with machetes. The going had been going slow for the past few days, but the company forged boldly ahead. Adventuring beyond the edges of the most expansive map, they carved a swathe into terrain formerly without fear, searching evermore for increasing adventure and discovery.

It had been over a year since they'd last seen Caelondia. The company had dedicated several hundred coins and a dozen baskets of fruits to the Altar of Pyth before they'd set off, but their efforts to attract the deity's attention were unnecessary: his gaze was already fixed upon the one who had walked through the times. The Wakeful Bull took the measure of the group of devotees, and found them deserving of his strength and protection – for the present time.

It had taken some thinking, but The Kid had decided to go with the group of intrepid explorers in order to make his way to the Tazal Terminals. Relations with the Ura were still pretty sketchy, but he figured that if he kept his head down when he got there, he should be able to find Zulf and make sure that the disillusioned boy didn't die. Though Caelondia may have turned on its head inexplicably, maybe the Ura had remained the same. It was something to hope for, at any rate.

The Kid hefted his hammer comfortably, secure in the knowledge that his old friend was beside him. Bereft of aught else as he was, its presence was a comfort of itself. The Army Carbine that he had slung on his back was uncomfortable – frankly, he'd rather stick with just his hammer, but The Trappers had assured him an alternate weapon was an absolute must when dealing with the Wilds. Besides, Yurgen had told him to take it, so he did.

Ah, Yurgen, or, as he was better known, The Explorer. He was probably the only reason that Kid had come along the expedition in the first place, rather than looking for safer transport to the Terminals. A brimming bastion of vitality and energy, he carried his head high and faced whatever troubles faced his crew face-first. The linchpin of the enterprise, looked up to by all his subordinates, blessed by Pyth himself, and respected by Kid: The Explorer was certainly a unique person. Never shying from work, he would often help his men out by taking a shift on patrol, or helping with the cooking.

Often, as The Kid and Yurgen sat together over a Lunkhead leg (surprisingly tasty when well-cooked), they'd talk of philosophy and living off the land. Oh, The Kid wouldn't say much beyond the odd shifting sound as he moved about, but it was a conversation nonetheless. With the rising embers of the campfire glowing in the depths of their eyes, Yurgen would talk of many. He talked of his family, of how he wanted to make their name resound through the ages. He talked of his sling, made from genuine hand-stitched Anklegator hideskin. He talked of his beliefs, of how Pyth only gave strength to those who first gave it to others around them.

They talked of many things on those evenings. The Kid, while he never responded, would often ponder the eccentric Explorer's mannerisms, wondering exactly who this 'Yurgen' character was.

Suddenly, the entire cavalcade snapped to attention as a terribly familiar grunting sound rang out from the trees ahead. The scouts came flying back, clothes in disarray as they gasped out their report: Lunkhead in front of them, a real mean one.

The Explorer listened to them for a moment then turned to The Kid. Flashing a megawatt-grin, he tipped his head towards the growing rumblings in the swamp, saying:

"Ye ken the drill. Ye'd better get a-moving, kid, 'n cut that sucker off. Me 'n the boys'll flank him and shoot his sides up if'n you c'n keep him busy fer long enough, savvy? Jus' make sure he's facin' you, and we'll take care of the rest."

Nodding once, The Kid pulled his Shield onto his forearm and settled into a defensive position. They'd done this several times before, so he wasn't especially worried about the procedure. Besides, a single Lunkhead was scarcely enough to intimidate him; not after everything he'd seen.

Standing above, the God of Commotion and Order stamped his hooves impatiently and snorted heavily. His followers were getting ready to fight.

The Lunkhead stormed out of the bushes, completely infuriated and ready to tear into the intruders who'd dared to invade its home. In the bushes around it, the Trappers silently prepared their own weapons, while Yurgen readied his own Sling, ready to take out the enemy at a moment's notice.

They all knew the routine, and were just waiting for the foe to stun himself upon The Kid's impenetrable defense. Then…they'd strike. They'd done this several times before, and this time would be no different. Just part of the Trapper's everyday life.

Unfortunately, Pyth, the Lord of Chaos and Calm, was never one to make things so easy for those who'd been audacious enough to leave gifts at his altar.

Turning from the obvious target, The Kid, the Lunkhead managed to catch a glimpse of a careless Trapper's weapon glinting in the filtered sunlight. Latching on to the target, it moved faster than the eye could blink, leaping straight towards their hiding place. The Trapper could only watch as the beast's portentous bulk came down towards him unerringly, pulled by the inescapable force of gravity. There was no way he could dodge in time.

His comrades, seeing their friend's peril, opened fire immediately; but the angles were all wrong, sending their shots ricocheting off wildly, and they could only watch haplessly as the beast continued to descend directly towards the frozen Trapper. Breath caught, leaves rustled, twigs snapped, hearts stopped.

The Scale of Strength and Cowardice tipped above The Explorer.

Mind made up with scarcely any thinking, he tensed his stocky legs and made his move. Barreling faster that a Pecker's charge, he charged through his subordinate's position faster than a charging Bull, knocking the paralyzed man out into a sprawl a safe distance away.

A moment later, the Lunkhead landed with a monumental thump, obliterating the ground below it.

* * *

_Y'know, there weren't many of The Explorers, but they sure were a rough breed. Guess they had to be, with a job like theirs. It was said that even a blow from the mightiest Masons couldn't fell one of those folks._

_What's that? You don't like this part of the story?_

_That's OK. Neither do I._

* * *

_**In the fell clutch of circumstance,  
**__**I have not winced nor cried aloud.**_

* * *

"Ah, et's time ta git movin'. We've been cryin' o'er me fer three months now – tha's plenty of time for mah ribs ta have patched up! We're headin' out in the mornin', an' tha's final!"

Overriding the concerned protests of his subordinates, Yurgen levered himself to a sitting position, meeting the eye of the seated Kid, who was watching the interaction with some hidden amusement. The Explorer continued his speech:

"It's been near a year an' a half since we set out, an' we still ha'nt made it to the _real_ Wilds! We've seen naught but two small Anklegators, and nary a sign of any Unknown creatures! We need ta get _adventurin'_, boyos!"

Clearly The Explorer's patron god should have been Yudric rather than Pyth: his impetuous attitude would have pleased the headstrong equine deity. The God of Impulse was, indeed, attracted to this spirited man, and his influence showed in Yurgen's decision-making processes.

And so, after that semi-inspirational speech, the train of men found themselves moving ahead once more. After taking a lengthy break to allow for the recuperation of The Explorer (who had been severely wounded after the tangle with the Lunkhead, but had proven himself worthy of Pyth's patronage), the gang was finally on the move once more. The Kid was itching to get moving and get closer to the Tazal Terminals – where, hopefully, he could find the boy that he'd sworn to save.

Gradually, the going grew tougher. Covering distance was difficult – on a good day, they covered around five hundred paces. Clearing out increasing numbers of Pecker nests and Pinchushion settlements, the group could tell that they were really getting closer to the boundaries of the Wilds.

The rearguard reported that the way behind them closed up almost as soon as the last man had gotten through. The Wild disliked having to share, and greedily snatched back the ground the Trappers had cleared. The way back was shut, and the only way to go was forward.

Almost three years after the expeditionary force had set out, The Explorer called a halt at the very edge of the realms. Planting a spear in the largest clearing they'd come across, he claimed the land for Caelondia, and his men began the difficult task of taming the rough land they'd taken for their own. Converting the green gold of the forest into money proved easier than expected though: lush green vineapples surrounded the party, and they often joked that Pecker flesh was more tender than the best cooked dish in the City.

They had constructed a rudimentary Arsenal for their equipment in a few days, and set up some crude barriers and a watch fire. They were within calling distance of the Tazal Terminals, and Yurgen told The Kid that he could take off just as soon as some walls got set up. With the power of the Shard, it would be easy to bend the Wilds under them.

As the Trappers went about their business, The Kid took some time to look at himself in a mirror. He'd grown several inches over the past few years, and his gangly frame had filled out somewhat. He was also significantly stronger, although his muscles had remained lean and wiry all the way through. Still, he was still easily recognizable as the same rapscallion he'd been…back then. The thought was somewhat reassuring.

Anyway, he'd be off as soon as the Trappers were consolidated. It shouldn't take that long – five days at the most. These were experienced men after all, well-versed in the proper way to set up fortifications in unknown areas.

Except the Wild had other plans.

One by one, the Trappers fell prey to the insidious pitfalls hidden under the vibrant leaves of the forest. Peckers attacked out of nowhere, Stinkweed blinded men and led them into the darts of Pincushions, and Wallflowers shot men from distances beyond sight. Almost before anyone knew it, the party's numbers had fallen a good deal.

There was more to it than that, however. A deceptive smoke had taken to roiling mystically along the ground, fuddling the senses of any and all who were caught in it. It surrounded the camp every night, clinging to the men's ankles as they moved about on the watch. Echoes of the roars of an unknown beast resonated through the mists, disorienting the sentries.

Yurgen had heard tales of such monsters. Beasts that could turn sane men into raving lunatics with one whiff, and unleash a hail of spikes from above. A legendary plant, larger than a building, spoken of in legend and ancient fables.

The Lungblossom.

The Explorer was sure of it. One of those giant beasts was responsible for his men failing to come in after night patrol, or for walking off of the edge of towering cliffs without a clue. He needed to destroy the monster, and fast, before more of his Trappers died.

A council of war was called. After a few brief hours of worried deliberation, it was decided that there was really only one real option available to them, isolated as they were. They would fight. Gathering The Kid and his men for a large-scale attack that would hopefully eradicate the Lungblossom from the region, Yurgen led his group and struck out to the very edge of the mountains, almost entering the land of the mysterious Ura.

The embodiment of Impulse and Bravery pranced among the men, lighting the fires of their spirits and tinting their eyes red. With a toss of his head and a shrill neigh, the Steed of the Sun led the men into their last charge.

On the edge of a towering cliff that overhung a meandering river, the border of the Uran lands, the Lungblossom awaited them. Surrounded by hordes of Lunkheads and Pincushions, the monarch of the Wilds waited for them, resplendent in its archaic yet bestial glory.

A grey horse danced in the winds.

Charging straight in, pikes swinging and hammer smashing, the small core of hardened Trappers assaulted the sentinels of the Wild. Over half of the group fell to the initial wave of missiles from the enemy, blood staining the rich black earth below them. Their comrades, enraged beyond all reason, took vengeance twice over for their fallen friends, before falling themselves. The God of Impulse was present, after all, and foolhardy bravery was expected from those before him.

The Slinger rocketed off shot after shot, taking Peckers out through the eye and pulverizing any Pincushions unfortunate enough to be in the path of one of his blistering attacks. A direct shot from his magnificent weapon, shot by an arm fueled by righteous fury, was powerful enough to send a Lunkhead cartwheeling over the edge of the cliff into the tranquil waters far below.

Three more trappers fell to a flurry of shots from a tight knot of Wallflowers. Rolling into their midst neatly, The Kid laid the entire group low with a massive slam from his Cael Hammer, dispersing their beasts even as their ineffectual shields failed to protect them from his wrath. Turning from their remains, he turned to find that the hordes of foes simply would not slow, and crouched as he prepared to block a particularly pertinacious Lunkhead's advance.

Behind him, the last of the Trappers fell; a victim to a Pecker's mad rush. Only The Explorer and The Kid remained, tired and battered remnants of their once-proud party. Standing side-by-side, their backs to the cliff, the two prepared for what would be the hardest fight of their lives.

Suddenly, they heard a rushing sound from above. Yurgen and The Kid, with instincts honed after years of surviving by the skins of their teeth, immediately sensed the peril and wasted precious seconds looking up at the growing shadow that had been superimposed over them. Their eyes widened as they realized what was coming

Spiraling downwards relentlessly, a torrent of projectiles spewed from the Lungblossom, aiming straight for The Kid, who realized his danger a fraction of a second too late. There was no way he could get out of this one. Time ground to a halt.

Yudrig, the Morning Stallion, pranced over The Explorer's head. The God of Impulse and Bravery whinnied curiously as he wondered which way The Explorer's impetus would turn him – sacrifice once more, or simple shocked acceptance? The Steed of the Dawn reared back upon the wind, kicking his feet upon nothing, as he waited upon the man. Dancing with the aether, his flowing form waited to carry a Spark to the sky.

Yurgen's mind agonized through his options.

The Stallion stamped his hoof.

The Kid, suddenly cognizant of his impending doom, tried futilely to evade the coming fire, knowing full well that he could never make it. Just as he was accepting this fact, he felt a heavy shove from behind, throwing him stumblingly to the floor, half-out of the coming attack and dangerously close to the cliff's edge.

The Lungblossom's shot hit a moment later, assailing its target with a bevy of shots that tore the ground up.

As the dust cleared, The Kid felt a stabbing pain sear through his feet. Both of his legs had been trapped, and, though he couldn't tell through the obfuscating clouds, he knew they were broken beyond a doubt. He'd broken bones before, and he sucked in his breath sharply to stave off the pulsing pain. There were more important things to be doing right now.

A sound from in front of him diverted his attention from himself, and his eyes widened as he took in the sight before him.

Coughing up blood, struggling to remain upright, and yet refusing to fold from the manifold blows to his body, The Explorer remained unbent, broken yet not beaten by the pounding blows delivered from above. Despite the immense brutality of his injuries, Yurgen stood tall after the barrage.

On the brink of the abyss, standing between The Kid and the arrayed forces of the Wild, The Explorer refused to be cowed. Swinging his rugged sling in one hand, he spat blood onto the ground as he used the other arm to wipe his face clear of the grime. His eyes, unclouded and piercing, turned to The Kid's shocked form on the ground, and an uneven grin spilt from his tattered lips.

A grey horse pawed the ground gently.

"Hey, Kid. My folks'll be waiting for me at home. The Jawson family: e'ryone in Caelondia know their faces. Do me a favor, and tell 'em summat for me, eh?"

The approaching foes were milling about, getting ready to overpower the lone figure with sheer numbers. They'd take him out, then turn to the smaller form lying behind him.

"Tell 'em about The Slinger, Yurgen Jawson."

With that, The Explorer unceremoniously kicked The Kid's crippled form off of the precipice, sending him tumbling to the waters far below. As he fell, stunned, through the cutting air, he could hear a final cry, even as a magnificent steed nickered softly upon the wind.

"Tell 'em that Jawson conquered the Bog!"

Thus did Yurgen Jawson, The Slinger and Explorer, pass on into the stars.

The Kid landed with a crash in the freezing river.

* * *

_Legend tells of an Uran scouting party that stumbled across a peculiar sight: a decomposing, putrefying Lungblossom on their very borders. They couldn't find a single clue as to how it had been killed until they cut the disgusting thing open like a rotten Vineapple._

_There, in the rotten core of that husk, they found a smooth slingstone that had bored straight through the beast like it was paper, stopping in the dead-center of that monster._

_Now, now, don't cry, Zia. It'll all work out in the end._

* * *

_**Under the bludgeonings of chance  
**__**My head is bloody but unbowed.**_

* * *

Floating gently downstream, The Kid could feel his body failing. The ice-cold waters of the mountain river were chilling his extremities, and his shattered legs were already numb. He was briefly grateful for the relief from his pain, but he couldn't seem to hold onto a single thought for more than a few seconds. His head was spinning, and he was already feeling warm and fuzzy.

In the back of his mind, he knew that feeling warm when one was actually freezing was indubitably the first sign of hypothermia, and he knew that unless he managed to get to dry land quickly, he would die. He knew the thought should have rankled something within, but he simply couldn't bring himself to care. After all, would dying be so bad? Life was pretty much past the point where it was worth living, and was currently scraping the bottom of the barrel of miseries it had dumped on him. Death wouldn't be so bad. In his semi-delirious mind, the dead welcomed him with open arms.

Gamboling merrily about, the wandering Olak happened to glance at the one his father had showed so much interest in. Frolicking nearer, the Carefree Son saw that his Spark was running low. After a moment of whimsical deliberation, the God of Chance and Whim snapped his fingers before gusting along his jovial path, spreading fortune and malaise with equal generosity.

As he drifted, The Kid became dimly aware of a rushing sound somewhere in the periphery. Turning his head to get a better look, he saw a shoreline stretching to his right and realized detachedly that he must be near some sort of beach. He thought about making an effort to get to the shore, but the need to do so was forestalled by the feeling of rough sand and gravel under his body as Olak laughed. With a tumble and a spin, The Kid was tossed to the shore by rippling waves.

The wind was cold and biting against his face. Dragging himself by his arms alone farther up the shore, he eventually found a boulder large enough to keep him from the worst of the gusts. It was a large and smooth stone, and he decided that it would serve as one 'wall' of his lean-to. Propping himself up against it, he emptied his Pack out with fingers that he couldn't feel.

Fumbling for his waterproof ammunition bag, he scattered all of his gunpowder onto a nearby log that appeared to be somewhat dry. Using the flintlock hammer of his rifle as a trigger, he soon had a blaze going. It only took a few moments for the water to steam off of him before the raging inferno the powder had sparked.

Finally dry, he collapsed to the ground. Closing his eyes, he allowed himself to rest for a few minutes before taking advantage of his new-found fortune to assess his injuries.

Of course, the God of Chance and Whim both gives and takes away. His legs had sustained compound fractures, and while the Kid had learnt the basics of first-aid from the Marshalls during his shifts on the Rippling Walls, he knew that this injury would take several months to heal. He made some rough splints to help the process using some wood fragments.

Setting up a makeshift shelter to keep himself at least moderately protected from any sort of harm, The Kid settled in for the night. He arranged the soaked items in his Pack out before the fire, setting them so that they'd dry out before the morning. Keeping his hammer within easy reaching distance, he stoked the fire one more time before watching the setting sun until he fell asleep. He propped his head up against the supporting rock behind his shelter, easily able to locate any threat if he was awoken.

The next morning, he was roused by an unpleasant pressure to the nape of his neck, as well as a muted chattering that seemed to be coming from behind him. Nodding his head tiredly, he dazedly hoped for the annoyance to cease, and was pleased when the both of the annoyances faded. Drifting back into a lazy stupor, he was on the verge of falling asleep once more until the pressure returned, this time more insistent.

Admitting defeat, The Kid sat up and stretched, yawning hugely as he worked the kinks out of his spine. Mildly curious, he turned around to examine what it was that had awoken him, only to find (with something of a shock) that the boulder he had been leaning on through the night had pivoted on some kind of hinge, exposing a gaping hole in the ground. In fact, the rock appeared to be completely hollow, nothing like the solid stone he'd imagined it to be. That wasn't the biggest shock, though.

Not three feet from him, holding a wooden bucket loosely as she stood half-in half-out of the hole, staring slack-jawed at him with eyes wider than saucers, was Zia.

Zia!

No, not Zia.

Although she shared the same hair color and pale skin, there were telling differences between the girl The Kid knew and this one. Besides the general facial structure, there were also physical differences – this girl was a good foot taller than Zia, and was lankier. There was no doubt that there were resemblances, but those could easily be chalked up to ancestral heritage rather than any blood relation. This wasn't Zia, but a girl of the Ura.

Olak the Carefree Son laughed at the delightfully twisted story he could see unfolding before him. Frivolously flitting upon the winds of the heavens, he fairly shook with mirth.

Down below, The Kid and the girl stared at one another for a moment more, before she _eeped_ quite daintily and ducked back into the hole, slamming the door (rock?) back into place behind her, leaving a very confused Kid behind. What had just happened?

It took a few moments of thinking before the answer came to him – he was in Ura territory, and he was obviously sitting on the front door of one of their burrows. Before the Calamity, they'd all lived in tunnels under the ground, so it made sense that they still lived there.

The stone cracked open a few inches, and a pair of wary eyes glinted from the gap. The Kid hastily held his palms up, fingers apart, to demonstrate that he wasn't a threat. The rock crept a bit further up, and The Kid leant as far back as he could, what with his ruined legs and all, to show his goodwill. Eventually, the girl had come out entirely and, after a few wary seconds of scrutiny, scurried to the river, filled her bucket, and scuttled back, shutting the 'door' behind her hastily. Obviously, Uran trust was hard to win.

The Kid spent the rest of the morning setting up camp at another point a little farther down the shore, although he could still see the entryway into the Burrow he'd apparently stumbled upon. Moving his unpacked gear was difficult with his injuries, and it took him till midday to get his things moved. He had supplies for about a month of inaction, and briefly considered fishing to supply himself with meat.

As he was examining the river, he heard a noise and looked up from his labor to find that the stone had been rolled back. Emerging from the was the girl he'd seen earlier, along with two parent-looking Ura. The woman had a matronly air to her, and the daughter was hiding behind her skirts, peeking out nervously at the stranger who'd intruded upon their domestic life. The male was a good deal more threatening – obviously the father, he was understandably aggressive towards this heavily armed Caelondian who had just started camping outside his family Burrow.

Apparently, the two of them doubted the goodwill of a Caelondia, but they seemed to be somewhat more sympathetic to him due to his obviously debilitating injuries. After a good deal of pointing and gesticulating, as well as some unintelligible chatter between the trio, The Kid managed to convince them of his peacefulness.

Although they seemed unhappy about it, the two older Ura consulted each other in undertones, before turning to The Kid once more. The male figure stepped forward and, after a good deal of pantomiming, told The Kid that he could stay on the beach as long as he didn't cause trouble for them; a condition to which he readily acquiesced.

He didn't really bother them, of course. The only time he saw any of them was when the daughter (her name, he found out, was Zuria) came up for the daily bucket of water. He always waved to her when she showed up.

Eventually, she started waving back.

* * *

_In recent history, there have only been two Caelondians to successfully coexist in peace with the Ura. One was a missionary who was sponsored by the government and well-known through both nations. You know who I'm talking about, Zulf._

_The other, a couple of decades earlier, was a drifting fighter who had wandered into the Uran lands and made himself at home. Folks said that the curse of Olak was on him, though, and he kept to himself most of the time. Still, he was a peaceful kinda guy with white hair and a Cael Hammer, who wanted no trouble._

_That's right, Kid. He was kinda like you._

* * *

**A/N**: This will be a two-shot. The next update will be in precisely two weeks.

I do not own Bastion (that's Supergiant's, bless them) or _Invictus_ (which is William Henley's). This should be at the front, but it ruined the flow in my head when I left it there.

Reviews/criticism/flames/any type of interaction is always appreciated, despite how rarely it's received.


	2. And The End

**_Kid's probably dealt with Zulf by now. He reminds me of myself when I was his age. I ever tell you about those days?_**

**\- _Rucks speaking to Zia, The Tazal Terminals._**

* * *

**A/N:** Sorry this is late. Stuff…happened. Bad excuse, I know, but that's how it goes. Enjoy!

* * *

_**Beyond this place of wrath and tears  
**__**Looms but the Horror of the shade,**_

* * *

It had taken The Kid several months, but he'd eventually managed to pick up a bare smattering of the Uran language – enough to get by on the infrequent occasions when he needed to talk to someone other than the family he was living above. He occasionally ventured into the town, but he much preferred to sit outside the dens and fish peacefully.

For the most part The Kid was content to rest and let his legs heal properly. He'd soon be able to swing his hammer at full power again, but he worried that the lingering limp would remain with him for the rest of his life. He wasn't excessively worried, though – he'd found that the stout haft of his faithful Hammer also doubled as a walking stick. He was considering disassembling his weapon, but had decided against it after a good amount of thought. After all, one could never be sure when a sturdy tool would be needed, and his Hammer was good for more than smashing things.

Sometimes he tried to communicate with Zuria, and she'd taken him under her wing as a pet project. She taught him the ways of the Ura, and he learned avidly, even trying to mimic her language in an attempt to communicate. He learned quickly that doing so was a potentially fatal mistake.

The first time he'd tried greeting an Uran in his native tongue, the man had seized up and been terrifically insulted. It had taken all of Zuria's sugaring to convince the man not to storm to the elders and demand The Kid's execution. Since then, The Kid had been very careful to only communicate through hand signals and simple Caelondian words, using the Ura language only when Zuria was teaching him.

It turned out that Zuria's family lived in a small village that was considered to be insignificant due to its proximity to the borders, so its military power was negligible. The Kid was grateful for this – he didn't know what he'd do if had to deal with an Ura Halberdier trying to take his head off for some insult or the other. Nonetheless, they were wary of strangers as a result, but The Kid understood their caution.

His life was pretty indolent at the moment. Whenever he needed some knickknack or other item that he didn't have, he'd knock patiently on Zuria's Rock (as he'd dubbed his former headrest) and wait for one of her family to open up. He'd then politely ask if he could pass through their house, after which he'd hobble his way down the many winding turns and shadowy twists of the Ura tunnels until he arrived at his destination: the Tazal Terminals.

Not stopping to gawk at the magnificent architecture and the beautiful pillars arching gracefully to the tiled ceiling, The Kid would sidle his way through the thronging masses until he made his way to the Market. He still received askance glances thanks to his swarthy hue and monochromatic hair, but he'd gotten used to them. Eventually, he'd find the item he was searching for, would hand over the required money, and make his steady way back to the sunlight.

While walking, he often considered the best way to find Zulf. All he really remembered from the few times they'd talked about their pasts was that he'd crossed the Wilds from The Terminals to Caelondia. With no other clues and nothing else to go on, The Kid decided to remain in his nest by the borders, monitoring the flow in and out of their lands in the hopes of catching the one person he was bound to save.

He built a quaint house out of ramshackle materials he found here and there, settling into his post of unofficial watchdog quite comfortably. Anyone and everyone who tried to enter the small township had to go through his screening, and he provided an impressive layer of security that the village had been missing previously. The sight of a hardened battle veteran leaning intimidatingly on the handle of his hammer was easily enough to frighten off any would-be evildoers.

Eventually he became a fairly regular sight among their small community. Although he never learnt to read much, he eventually learnt enough Uran to understand an Ura conversation, although he always replied with either hand gestures or the few Caelondian words the Ura could understand.

He became the odd-jobs man of the village, chopping wood and ferrying water for small amounts of money that he'd use to buy food and other necessities.

The first villager to noticeably accept this foreign intruder into their quiet land was the blacksmith. A stern, well-built man, he invited The Kid into his forge one day to take a look at the battered shield on his back. The Bullhead Shield had needed a bit of repair, and the blacksmith absent-mindedly told The Kid to pump the bellows while he readied the anvil for the fixup. The two apprentices there – grinning mouths standing out against their soot-streaked faces – were a friendly brother and sister duo, and had accepted him with barely a nod and a smile.

He wandered through the Forge a couple of times more, drawn by irresistible memories of a different Forge in a shattered land. Once in a while, he'd indulge in a bit of metal working himself. His Hammer, normally such a crushing force, became a tame implement in The Kid's skilled hands, and the blacksmith gave his work high praise. He was given a standing invitation, and would occasionally mosey on down when he had nothing to do. The work was challenging, and he enjoyed going at it even in the small hours of the morning.

Others in the village grew used to him. One day, the local baker had handed a loaf of the peculiar Uran flat bread to him gruffly, before turning back to his oven without any further acknowledgement of The Kid. Slowly, one by one, the other members of the small community came to terms with his presence in their midst and gave their tacit approval one way or another. Eventually the sight of him moving unhurriedly through the tunnels, taking his time on his unsteady legs, became fairly commonplace to the people of the town, and they accepted him gradually.

He never forgot his purpose however, and refused to leave his small shelter at the borders for too long. He'd check each outgoing Ura very carefully, examining every feature of their face for even the most vague resemblance to Zulf. Of course, he also monitored the people who came in. After turning several obvious bandits away, his relationship with the people of the villager improved even more, and he could often be found playing with the children in the shallow waters outside his post. He could also be relied upon to chase away any curious or encroaching creatures of the Wild, and the people were grateful to him.

Stories of his strength spread slowly, and the day that he defeated a full-grown Anklegator single-handedly, crippled as he was and armed with naught but a Brusher's Pike, went down into the legendary lore of the town. Just the sight of him walking casually through the village, Hammer at his side, was enough to stop any Tavern fights before they developed. He became something like the unofficial watchdog of the area – not quite one of the people, yet definitely not an outsider.

Besides watching over the entire village, he was also the unofficial guard of Zuria's burrow. Camping outside her stone, he was privy to the freshest, juiciest gossip as it flowed up the grapevine. Zuria would come up every evening for her bucket of water, and The Kid would listen patiently as she unloaded the newest scandals within the small community upon him. He was content to merely listen

Leaning back while checking his lines for catches, he listened idly to Zuria's excited chattering as she discussed her current love interest. Apparently the lucky man (who had no idea he was being investigated) was an extremely intelligent, ultra-handsome, incredibly awesome man who was absolutely the perfect match for her. She was planning to start the courtship process, and they could be married in a dozen years if things went well. Apparently this was a rather rushed engagement, the standard waiting period being almost twenty years before a decision was reached, but Zuria was trying to talk her parents into shortening the probation period.

He nodded along to her feminine talk as he pulled several large fish out of the river and started the process of cleaning them for dinner. Honestly, The Kid would have been far more interested if Zuria's prospective husband had been named Zulf, but his name was some obscure, mathematical name starting with a V. Not that he could have been Zulf anyway – if The Kid was remembering right, _he'd_ married a Caelondian woman. Anyway, no matter who this random guy was, it was pleasant sitting down and chatting underneath the wide expansive sky.

Yes, life was good.

Roathus the Gorging Host looked up briefly from his Endless Banquet, pausing momentarily before continuing his efforts to alleviate the immense void within. The Lord of Thirst and Plenty withheld worldly pleasures from those who had excess, reminding them that indolence was never sanctioned by the gods.

His interruption, however, was not from the usual over-indulgence that required curbing. Rather, his attention had been drawn by a wandering bright soul that had, for a brief instant, found a perch to rest upon. Attracted by the unusual calm he'd sensed, he had glanced quickly below, before returning to his labor.

Even the Lord of the Endless Banquet could begrudge a few crumbs of peace and quiet to a poor soul who had suffered enough while laboring through his twisted mortal coil. The prematurely aged man who was eating white trout meat far below while laughing along with his young friend certainly deserved happiness, as little of that commodity as he'd received in his life.

Besides, if the sight of a world-weary soul who was finally receiving the fruits of his labor added a tiny bit of fulfilment to the Lord of Thirst and Plenty's yawningly empty heart, nobody would blame him for it. The Gorging Host took away far more often than he gave, but the sight of those who were truly happy with the pittance they'd been allotted was greater than any of the rich victuals he devoured.

The Gorging Host reminds us when we've had enough, but he also grants happiness to those who are content with the little they have.

And The Kid was content.

* * *

_The Ura-Caelondian War began, oh, maybe fifty years ago now. I was there, you know, on the Uran borders. It was peaceful round those parts, back then. Those were the days…_

_No one remembers rightly what sparked it, but there was no doubt that the Caelondians, with their superior weaponry, were going to win it. It was a gridlock for over a decade, but one day almost fourteen years after the attack on Point Lemaign, our Skippers decided to wrap it up quickly. Sneakin' through the Wilds, a squad of 'em managed to place their mortars onto the Uran borders and opened fire with their explosive charges._

_Thousands were left homeless, starting a mass exodus from the Terminals to Caelondia. I crossed the Wilds then too. Even helped a few folks along the way._

* * *

_**And yet the menace of the years  
**__**Finds and shall find me unafraid.**_

* * *

The Kid was relaxing upon some cushions that he'd managed to scrounge up from an Uran vendor. Recently he'd taken to lying around more and more, taking strain off of his ruined legs.

He'd gone to see an Uran doctor recently, but the man had said that the bones had set crooked, which explained his limp. Apparently, years of letting the torn limbs sit awry had allowed them to become twisted and a rather complicated surgery was needed to correct their alignment. Any strenuous exercise following the treatment would probably tear the legs beyond repair, and actual combat during the recovery period was out of the question for sure. Just a bit of excessive exertion and the ligaments would tear beyond repair. He'd probably need a crutch for the rest of his life if he moved about too much while recovering, so the doctor ordered him not to move about unnecessarily.

Mentally, The Kid tallied up the changes that had happened in this new world of his, although he sometimes had trouble remembering everything that had happened _before_. He still searched for Zulf, and still thought of Zia and Rucks occasionally, but he'd long since accepted that he was trapped in this facsimile world _ad infinitum_. He was older and taller than he'd been then, although his legs still gave him trouble (although, Jevel willing, that problem would be fixed soon enough).

The Kid supposed that he'd better do as the doctor ordered, and had reluctantly decided to have the surgery and take a few weeks off of work for a bit. The God of Health and Atrophy had handed him this burden, true, but The Kid felt no obligation to labor under it when he didn't have to. He may have been given a pair of ruined legs by a rather cruel twist of fate, but they'd be fixed in a month, barring any unexpected surprises.

On the border, high up a cliff and just out of eyeshot, a small band of Skippers huddled in the evening murk, calculating their trajectories while priming their charges for maximum devastation.

In a marble tower high and cold, Jevel the Tower Keeper watched in silence as the decadent rot of the world strove to smother the pure radiance. The battle was one that never ended, as the balance was delicate and the God of Health and Atrophy was occasionally forced to throw elements from one side to the other to maintain the ever-fragile equilibrium.

The discordance had been growing especially discrepant of late, and he feared that he would shortly have to intervene in order to maintain the balance.

The Kid sighed as he prepared to stay up for the night on watch. True, the war had been raging on for more than a decade years now, but The Kid felt strangely detached from the whole affair. Most of the actual combat took place far in the Wilds as a series of harried guerilla attacks, and not a single Caelondian soldier had been seen by any of the townsfolk. Granted, there was a steady stream of dead and wounded Ura soldiers flowing up from the warfront, but there was still a general feeling of distance that was felt by all. Nonetheless, The Kid wasn't particularly inclined to fall victim to an ambush, and settled in to watch the borders for the night.

As he sat there, alone in the dark, his mind wandered through the twisted roads he'd been taking. He refused to be beaten down by anything, though, and was firmly determined to keep moving forward. Perhaps the best example that life went on no matter what the circumstances was Zuria. Although she had gone to her den for the night, she'd stayed up extra-late to chat with him about the upcoming wedding. After almost a solid decade of formal courtship, she'd finally received the approval of her parents to marry her long-dated fiancé, whose shadowy figure was simply named The Husband in The Kid's mind. Apparently the war had convinced her parents that life was meant to be lived before it ended, and so she was allowed to prematurely marry him. The wedding was set to be conducted in a week.

The Kid lay back and looked at the stars, twinkling in their majestic glory above, untroubled by the pitiful struggles of those far below. As he lounged on his crude bed, he set to thinking about dark days long since gone and brighter days that were to come.

That was when the first Galleon Mortars opened fire from the border.

He sleepily looked up as the first glowing ball of plasma rose in a lazy arc through the sky, hanging suspended like a jewel in the sky; a mockery of the brilliant stars behind it. He identified it in a moment and had witnessed first-hand the devastation it could unleash. He watched, momentarily disabled by the sheer unexpectedness of the projectile's appearance, as it gently floated down to land upon the side of the mountain.

The ensuing explosion rocked the ground beneath The Kid's feet as thousands of tons of stone thundered into motion, sliding down the slope with the unstoppable force of gravity. Splinters of stone flew as part of the ground simply dissolved under the concussive force of the attack. He watched, horror-struck, as the terrain before the flood was swallowed up and obliterated entirely. He could only imagine the damage being dealt to the intricate tunnel system below the ground.

As he stood there, stunned, he watched as the rockslide slithered its crashing way down towards the river edge and, by extension, himself. Galvanized into action, he looked about frantically before realizing his one escape route: the burrows. He looked at the splints on his legs and remembered the words of the doctor just a few days ago. He looked at the oncoming slide again, and made up his mind.

Scrambling to the stone, he hauled back the entrance to Zuria's family den. Smoke belched out of the opening copiously, and he covered his watering eyes momentarily. Then, sucking in a huge breath of air, he dove into the billowing clouds of black even as more Mortars tore the land above. A bare moment after the door slammed shut over the tunnel, he felt the careening crash heavily above him, sealing the path back with a blast of rock. Stumbling frantically through the pitch-black tunnels, The Kid winced as rock chunks fell about his head and shoulders. He could feel the strings in his legs quiver and snap, and yet he refused to halt his rush. Several times, he narrowly escaped being crushed by boulders that dislodged themselves from the crumbling roof.

The turmoil rose, as the Tower Keeper watched with sorrow.

Down in the den, he found Zuria and her fiancé, The Husband, both trembling beneath the gravel that showered down. They'd sheltered under the remains of a table, although the flimsy defense that it provided was essentially worthless. Barely taking in their pale faces through the thick dust and diffused candlelight, The Kid stood above the two on the floor amidst the falling stone. As the duo covered their heads as the ceiling fell about them, The Kid stood tall in spite of his crooked legs.

Swinging his Bullhead Shield to his arm in a practiced motion, he stood above them with his mighty shield held high even as the toughened metal was rent by bouncing rocks when the roof came tumbling down.

Tons of cold hard stone came down with the sound of a thousand hammers. The Shield, battered mercilessly from all sides, was rent asunder by the impact. The toughened alloy virtually melted under the barrage, lasting barely until the slough of stone finally slowed and halted.

And yet The Kid remained standing, the work of the doctor completely undone by his labor. Below him, Zuria and The Husband stirred their bruised and battered bodies, unharmed for the most part. After lying in shock for a few minutes, the trio began crawling towards the light.

The search for survivors took several days and proved itself to be entirely fruitless within thirty minutes. There was nothing left where the village used to be. In the back of his head, among the rusty memories, The Kid heard a gravelly old voice growl out as though in a dream, "_The Calamity happened. Just like that_."

Burying the bodies took longer than finding them, and was a good deal harder. The blacksmith and his apprentices were buried under the forge, a hammer at their feet and the remains of a ruined Bullhead Shield as their headstone. The Kid stood there for a few minutes each day, remembering gruff words and dazzling smiles. Zuria's family was buried by the river, the daisies on their tomb watered frequently by their daughter's tears. The Husband found and buried his family himself. Grave looking people, relaxed in death.

Eventually the Vigil was completed, and their thoughts turned to the future. Zuria and The Husband were adamantly agreed on one thing – their only future was in Caelondia. The Kid looked about the ruins of the village, and was forced to agree.

So, for the last time, The Kid shouldered his mighty hammer and set off across the Wilds. The journey was infinitely harder now, with a smaller party and crippled as he was, but he forged ahead. Slogging forward through foes time and again, keeping all-night watch as his companions slept, dragging his body along through sheer willpower, he pierced through the forest like a machete.

Crossing the Wilds in a three-man party was almost unheard of, and only the foolhardy or insane would ever attempt it. Even the refugees traveled in groups of ten or more, in order to keep some semblance of security. To survive the trip with no casualties, while crippled beyond healing, was nothing short of legendary.

Jevel the Tower Keeper stood atop the world and smiled even as tears fell from his eyes like a silver river.

He blessed his followers with both health and atrophy, of course, but to see a man such as this one, who carried on no matter what his ailment, was an exquisite treat indeed.

* * *

_The Ura Refugee Immigration marks one of the very few times that a large number of people tried to make it across the Wilds – and survived. The sheer number of straggling people made it impossible for the beasts of the Wild to consume them all, and countless hundreds made it to the safety of Caelondia. Countless hundreds, however, perished and were forgotten._

_I went through with just two friends of mine. One of the hardest journeys of my life. Gave me my limp, y'know._

_Your parents made the trip, didn't they, Zia? Brave folks, they were._

* * *

_**It matters not how strait the gate,  
**__**How charged with punishments the scroll,**_

* * *

The Kid cursed mentally as his feet failed him yet again, forcing him to lean heavily upon the cane that never left his side. He was rather attached to it: the walking stick had been made from the former haft of his trusty Hammer, and the head of his hammer still hung at his waist. It was rather symbolic, he felt, that his former weapon had been disassembled to provide a prop for him in his (dare he say it) old age. The irony of his situation was not lost upon him: his body, once proudly swinging the hammer aloft, was now held upright with help of the hammer itself.

He brushed his lengthening hair out of his eyes as he squinted at the letters written on the page before him. Furrowing his toughened face, he strove to analyze the esoteric technical terminology in the manual, mind fairly steaming with the exertion.

Still, things could certainly be worse. Though he'd lost a good deal of his physical ability, he'd made up for it with his mental acumen. Sharpening his mind like another one of his many weapons, he'd studied every book he'd gotten his fingers on after he'd recovered from that eventful journey across the Wilds so many years ago. Almost thirty now, wasn't it?

After that hellish debacle across the Wilds, he'd managed to make sure that Zuria and The Husband (he'd never bothered to learn his name) to their new den in the refugee part of town. Shortly after, he'd decided to retire to his old family home. Hobbling through the streets steadily, he reached the familiar gate soon enough.

Standing before the door for a moment, he inhaled deeply and closed his eyes as the memories swirled behind them, within his mind's eye. As he stood there, he was remembering a radiant face set among glowing white hair. Remembering a wheelchair, visits to the doctor, and money that never was enough. Remembering a cold schoolyard, a dark evening, and a trip to the Walls. Eventually, he opened his eyes and walked in, closing the door firmly behind him.

The past would stay there, after all; and he knew better than anyone that mere memories were harmless.

It took him several months to recover from his injuries. Zuria found where he lived within days of her return, and insisted upon visiting him regularly to help him change his bandages and cook his meals. She got him there – in his mind, her metal Stockpot was a holy relic, capable of churning out dishes of incomparable taste. It was a family heirloom, apparently, and the food that came out of it was fit for the gods. It reminded him of home somehow, and he devoured it whenever he got a chance. In the face of such lascivious temptation, he just couldn't argue.

He'd come to terms with the fact that his legs would be ruined for life, but was determined to not let the injury affect his lifestyle. As soon as he was able, he was making his painful way through the streets while leaning on Zuria. Soon he felt well enough to walk without support, although his body couldn't maintain the strain for long without a walking stick. Some days he felt like Hense – his body covered in scratches and scars accumulated from the many years of fighting in his younger years.

The Goddess of Pain and Pleasure often smiled under her shroud despite the many scabby injuries concealed beneath. It was nothing unusual, and tales had spread of the Veiled Widow who could be found grinning under her stained covering. The more pessimistic of her followers felt that she was smirking at the pain of mortals while leeching their pleasure from them. Indeed, almost everyone thought so, and she was one of the more feared gods in the Pantheon.

Some, however, saw her a bit differently. Take The Kid, for instance. From where he stood, it seemed to him as though Hense, with her battered body and many wounds, was smiling as she saw the joy of those whose sorrows she had taken upon herself. The Kid had related to her long ago, when he stood in front of mortal blows and hammering monsters in order to protect those who were dear to him, and he still respected the Giver of Agony and Relief.

Didn't mean he enjoyed the Agony, though.

The Kid spent his days wandering around the city. The lack of both the Rippling Walls and the Bastion had been bothering him for some time, and he was having trouble adjusting to the city without them. He'd weave his way through the new shops and stalls, memorizing the layout of the city as he walked about.

One day, on one of his meandering strolls through the streets, he wandered into the library. Normally he'd enjoyed spending time there (though he wasn't much for reading, the silence suited his placid temperament well, but he'd never gone there after his return. Sauntering through the door, he looked around. Everything looked pretty much the same as he remembered: sheets of paper everywhere, a severe librarian shushing any noisemakers, and everywhere books stacked to the ceiling. Grabbing some paper, he'd drawn diagrams of the Rippling Walls from memory. He'd sketched the inner mechanisms of the Bastion, too: trying to get the images from his mind's eye onto paper. He covered page after page with writing, documenting as much as his fuzzy memories allowed him to. A small crowd formed behind him as people whispered to one another, trying to determine what he was doing.

Eventually, a Mancer came walking through the building with a stack of books in his arm to take a look at the source of the commotion. When he saw what The Kid was sketching, his eyes went wide and he scuttled off to find his superiors.

The Kid was inducted a few hours later.

His only task was to somehow get the magnificent and awe-inspiring structures of the Rippling Walls and the Bastion off of the blueprints and into existence. He was given unlimited manpower, as much money as he could ever have needed, and some of the brightest minds in Caelondia. Whatever the price, The Mancers, home army of Caelondia, wanted to see those defenses built.

For the next thirty-odd years, The Kid labored single-mindedly on the Walls and Bastion. Pouring everything from his head into his work, he stayed up late nights studying to fill in the gaps in his memory. Supplementing his hazy sketches with the actual science behind the working of his recollections became a furious passion for him. He became adept in a number of fields, familiarizing himself thoroughly with any and everything that had anything to do with his work. He worked like a captive Windbag, barely breaking his studies to eat and sleep.

This reckless abandon was only spurred on by Zuria's death. She'd died in childbirth. Through the many months of their stay in Caelondia, she had never failed to visit The Kid's quarters every evening with an offering of food – usually a bowl of her fantastic stew. It had become a regular event over the years. Even when she was in her seventh month of pregnancy, she'd cheerfully make the walk to The Kid's house and settle down to reminisce for a bit about times long past. She'd come only a few days before her passing, in fact, and she'd joked with The Kid like every other time.

He funeral had been a grim affair. As the priest rang the bells and mumbled his chants half-heartedly, the small gathering of people shifted uneasily before the tombstone. The Daughter (unnamed at the moment) couldn't stop wailing, and The Husband made no move to comfort her. The reek of decay and atrophy hung heavy over the cemetery, in sharp contrast to the bright soul being buried there. The Kid had left as soon as he could, sick to the stomach. There was nothing here for him.

That had been the last time he'd seen The Husband and The Daughter for the next dozen years or so. Last he'd heard, The Mancers had absorbed the two, and The Husband was currently working on some secret project up at the Observatory.

He didn't care. He forgot about everything outside of him as he worked, losing himself in the tangled web of diagrams he navigated every night. Construction was nearing a halt, and his presence was needed on site almost every day now. The Walls were quickly becoming one of the sights of Caelondia, and the Bastion was already being hailed as the most secure haven in the entire City.

Far above him, standing with the corroded scales of Pain and Pleasure in her mutilated hands, Hense observed as The Kid struggled forward through the hazy mists of loss about him. She saw him take it all on the chin, wading through countless struggles in order to finish his labor.

As she watched him, there was not the faintest trace of a smile on the face behind the veil.

* * *

_I ever tell you how I built the Walls? Took me near forever, I'll tell you, and was some heavy work. Kept everyone safe though, and that's what matters._

_You like Hense too, eh Kid?_

_Well, that's just grand._

* * *

_**I am the master of my fate…**_

* * *

Sirens began whining through the Mancer complex, disturbing The Kid as he sat at his desk doodling aimlessly. The Walls had been finished over ten years ago, but he wasn't allowed to leave the service until the Bastion, with its more delicate machinery, was completed. That had finally been completed a few months ago, and now he found himself sitting around doing nothing most of the time. He was given a fat pension and quarters with the Mancers, but he hadn't been allowed to depart the Mancers until some papers were processed properly. Something about security, or some such rubbish. All that talk about security, and look at what was happening now: alarms blaring through the entire building like the apocalypse was upon them.

The Kid groaned as he got up, joints and ligaments creaking. He was getting far too old for this kind of thing. His limbs, long since unfit for any sort of weapon, quivered as he hobbled his way down the hall, leaning heavily upon his crutch. As he moved slowly through the corridors, a few of the higher-ups hustled by him impatiently, chattering anxiously about some kind of project that had gone wrong.

An experimental weapon, designed to wipe out all of Caelondia's weapons. Completed hurriedly by a man who'd been blackmailed into finishing the job. Ready to be unleashed, were it not for these latest developments.

As though thunderstruck, The Kid knew almost instinctively what they were talking about. Memories from almost fifty years ago surfaced in a jumbled mass of voices and images as he realized what was happening. There was only one thing that all this could possibly mean.

_The Calamity._

He turned around as fast as he could, catching a brief glimpse of their official uniforms fluttering around the corner. Adrenaline suddenly pumping through his veins, he hurried around the bend just in time to see the door to the lower level swing shut slowly.

Following their footsteps doggedly, he forced his legs to carry him faster and faster even as they groaned in protest. They passed several signs and warnings indicating the extreme sensitivity of the experiment being conducted, but the base was panicked and the protocol had all but vanished.

Breathing heavily and sweating, he managed to make it to the bottom floor right behind the Mancers in front of him, just in time to catch a glimpse of the massive room that lay beneath the Headquarters. Usually cordoned off for security reasons, the premium-access only chamber was unguarded in the pandemonium.

It was largely abandoned, but at the far end there was a man in a lab coat hunched over a massive switchboard, flipping switches and twisting dials in a frenzied rush. At the shout from the intruders, he turned around briefly for a flickering instant. His face knocked the breath from The Kid's belly.

_The Husband?_

There, on the far side of the laboratory, was The Husband. He was sweating profusely, and his eyes had a desperately harried look in them, but it was him. The Kid hadn't seen him since the funeral, but there was no doubt about it. As The Kid watched, his face twisted into a rictus of untold sorrow as he turned back to the panel, working at a redoubled pace while the building shook.

"What's going on, Venn? You told us this would destroy the Ura!"

_Venn? The Husband's name…is Venn?_

As The Kid stood there, thunderstruck, The Husband pulled a hefty lever. Immediately, the vibrations intensified exponentially as blocks of stone fell from the ceiling far above. Everyone stumbled a bit to the side, and the Mancers took to their heels. They scuttled up the stairs as fast as their legs could carry them, trying to evade the devastation about to come.

Still recovering, The Kid heard The Husband speak to him as though from a great distance. Without turning around, he uttered a single phrase that was charged with unspoken words, of guilt that could crush a nation, and of the anguish of a father who was dying too soon.

"I'm _sorry_."

That was all he had time for before he disappeared into the consuming light.

The very ground beneath them started falling apart as though being eaten away. Slowly at first, then faster, the wave of destruction expanded outwards with a blinding flash of white until the whole city was enveloped.

In the stillness above, a misshapen figure hunched over on his magnificent seat. Resplendent in his glory and yet twisted in form, Garmuth the Crippled Duke watched as the arc of destruction swept the world away. He kept his eyes fixed obdurately as the weapon devoured the world, leaving mere fragments behind.

The God of Purpose and Folly despised knaves who acted upon their every impulse, wreaking havoc amidst the careful plans of the wise. He twitched a finger slightly, then turned away. And though he sighed heavily at the chaos below him, a smile tugged his lips as he pondered a question he'd often posed to his followers: What purpose could there be for a man who'd just lost everything?

In the darkness left behind, The Kid coughed several times creakily before rising to his feet. He'd survived somehow, lying beneath several slabs of stone that should have crushed him flat. For a moment, he felt as though there was a barrier between him and the world, repelling any harm that could have come his way. Then the feeling faded, and he rose to his feet.

Swaying unsteadily, he made his way towards the dim light leaching in from above. His feet rocked as he walked through piles of sickeningly warm dust.

Finally emerging from the shattered remnants of the Mancer Headquarters, The Kid took in the devastated landscape before him. It was just like he remembered. Sitting down unevenly on a chunk of rock nearby, he rested his hands on his staff and started thinking.

His mind whirred furiously as he connected the dots, dredging up memories of a time long ago. Remembering voices in his childish dreams, and stories told around a blazing fire. Remembering the voice of an old, old man who'd never even bothered to ask him for his name. The name of a girl who, when all had seemed lost, could still sing like an angel. The face of a boy who'd given himself over to his wrath and had been corrupted entirely by it.

He sat like that for some time until he'd worked out exactly what had happened. It all made sense. It all pieced together. Lying there, at the end of all things, The Kid felt a rush of peace go through him as he finally understood.

Far over him, Garmuth smiled as he saw a soul, surrounded by the foolishness of a broken world, find his purpose anew.

The Kid saw a young boy, awfully familiar, lying asleep on the Walls on a floating fragment of masonry. He saw The Daughter, heartbroken and alone, singing a sweet siren song of sorrow to the winds alone on Prosper Bluff. He saw The Survivor, soul rent beyond repair, mourn and lament his loss in the Hanging Gardens.

He saw all his friends at last, after countless years apart. And he knew what he had to do.

Inhaling deeply, he parted his lips and spoke the first words to have left his mouth in more years than he cared to remember:

"**Proper story's supposed to start at the beginning. Ain't so simple with this one…"**

* * *

_And that's it. That's the end of the story._

_Well, looks like it's time for bed. Better get a good night's sleep, y'all. I'll take first watch tonight._

* * *

…_**I am the captain of my soul.**_

* * *

Rucks stood at the wheel of the ship, looking through wind-swept hair at the bright blue sky ranging far above him, interspersed with cotton-white clouds. The air was crystal clear at that altitude and he could see the distant horizon far in the distance. Using the crew's spyglass, he fancied he could see clear across the Boundless Sea, although such a thing was obviously impossible. Nonetheless, the sight of the boundless horizon after so many years lifted his spirits, and he breathed a prayer of thanks to Micia as he steered the vessel.

Behind him, he could hear his motley crew scurry about as they maneuvered the Bastion through the sky. He smiled to himself as he watched The Kid wrestle with a mop on the main floor while Zia was on the lookout where the skyway had used to be. She would clamber up to the crow's nest on the rare instances when a possible threat was sighted, but for the most part she was content to stay on the ground floor and watch from the prow.

It was a fairly normal day. Zia was constantly chattering about whatever object far below caught her atteniton, and The Kid was frequently forced to halt his cleaning duties and get dragged over to the sides, where she'd eagerly point out whatever it was that had attracted her attention. After a few moments of nodding and smiling, The Kid would get back to work; only to be interrupted several moments later by her next cries of surprise and wonder.

Zulf was sitting behind Rucks. As the ship's official navigator, it was his job to make sure that he could pinpoint their exact location at any given time. Just because they had no idea where they wanted to go was no excuse for not keeping track of where they were.

Still, the boy was unusually silent today, without so much as the occasional rustle of paper as he shifted the maps. Rucks could tell that he had something on his mind, and decided to help him get it out into the open.

"Awfully quiet back there, Zulf. Somethin' on your mind?"

Zulf jerked up at the sound of Rucks' voice. After a few moments to collect his thoughts, he asked in his customarily analytical voice, "Last night, that story you told us."

Rucks didn't say anything, just nodded. Prodding the boy to continue.

"Was it the truth?"

Swiveling slowly, Rucks turned to face the young man. Looking Zulf straight in the eye, he nodded.

They didn't say anything else until that night, when they moored the Bastion and picked a clearing to rest in. After they pitched the tents and settled around the food, Zia made the customary request for a story. Rucks' answer took some time, and was delivered with a grave face.

"Sorry, Zia. That's all the stories I got."

The Kid and Zulf both were surprised by this and it showed in the way their eyes turned to look at him, although their heads didn't move. Zia's eyes widened. "No more stories? Ever? Then what are we supposed to do now?"

Rucks turned towards the star-filled sky. A myriad of glittering souls shone back on him, shining gloriously in the Goddess of Loss and Longing's bosom. Even as he felt the encroaching weight of his years on his back, he smiled as he surveyed the luminescent faces turned up to him. He wouldn't be joining the Lorn Mother anytime soon, no ma'am. Not with a crew like this.

"Now? Well, now I suppose we gotta go find a new story to write."

* * *

**A/N**: _The premise for this two-shot is, basically, the rather intelligent-sounding theory that Rucks is, in fact, The Kid from another timeline. It knocked me sideways when I heard it, 'cause it sure as heck explains some things. I'm also a mega-fan of _Steins;Gate_ (if the profile pic didn't clue you in), so I find the timeline theory totally legit. See next paragraph for reasons._

_Rucks and The Kid both have white hair and brown eyes, neither of which are genetic traits of the Cael people ("_The Kid inherited his momma's hair, not that it did him any good_"). The Kid has a bandage on one side of his face, right where Rucks has a faded…something. Rucks also has the head of a Cael Hammer strapped to his waist, and a cog like the one on The Kid's back. They both wear red bandanas. Rucks never asked for The Kid's name. Rucks knew The Kid's backstory. While no evidence can be conclusive, I feel that all this makes at least a compelling argument._

_Just a quick note: some people on an online forum thought that The Kid is a mute, and thus _can't_ talk, and therefore cannot be Rucks. This is actually impossible. Rucks says in the first "Who Knows Where" that 'The Kid had a hard life, supposing what he said in his sleep was no lie'. Ergo, he is able to speak._

'_Invictus' by William Ernest Henley is an awesome poem, and is made even awesome-_er_ when you hear the author's story. I don't own it, and have never purported to do so._

_Some notes regarding continuity (_BORING MATH_, so you can skip if you wanna). First off, the Ura- Caelondian war started around 50 years before the canon story started, but the actual length was never mentioned – we just know Rucks was intimately acquainted with it, so he was around during it (it lasts 12 years in my story, for the record. The Kid was tossed __**45 years into the past**__ by Lemaign. He wandered through the Wilds with Jawson for __**3 **__**years**__ before stopping. Thus, he was forty-one years in the past when he met Zuria, who was thirteen at the time. Zuria died at age thirty-six, meaning that The Kid had known her for __**23 **__**years**__. Supposing that Zia was about __**19-ish**__ in the story (hard to tell), the math all adds up. Thus, I feel that Rucks' age works out properly. So I'm a nerd._

_Secondly, the Jawson Family was a group of statues The Kid could scatter in Caelondia, and the similar nomenclature indicates a relation to the Jawson of Jawson Bog. We hear that Jawson (I made his first name up) had earned the title 'Slinger' when you equip the Pike and the Dueling Pistols at the Arsenal. Lawsy, I've played this game too much._

_Thirdly, I realize that there was more than one Caelondian missionary to the Ura (in the description for the Machete, it mentions that missionaries, plural, feared the weapon), but for the sake of the story we're pretending that only one of them was successful. Which may be true. Highly unlikely, but possible nonetheless._

_Fourthly, the gods may have been characterized oddly, but that's how I think of them. They don't really have much flavor text in the story, so I created them how I saw them. I couldn't even personify Micia. Oh, and Rucks survived the Calamity because of Garmuth's cool (but _obnoxious_) trick with the reflecting attacks. Seemed like the only thing that'd work._

_Fifthly, although the Rippling Walls and Bastion are described as things that have been around for a while, we know that they couldn't possibly have existed for more than forty years at the maximum, since Rucks says he built them (Actually, he says he dreamed of them…and that The Kid made them real. Suggestive much?). Thus, they may have in fact been recent infrastructures._

_Sixthly, the Bastion after the Evacuation has been described as a flying ship in this story. Frankly speaking, all we actually saw of the thing in the game itself was a large gear and a patchwork sail. Thus, I was forced to let my imagination loose. Why wouldn't they have a crow's nest? _

_Anyway, that's all from me. I hope that you never look at Rucks the same way again. If you could review your take on this theory, that'd be great. Unlikely, but still great._

xxXxx


End file.
